


Noir

by fightfortherightsofhouseelves, gryffindormischief



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, F/M, Hinny, Murder Mystery, Sultry Hinny, Weekend Getaway, Winter fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 01:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightfortherightsofhouseelves/pseuds/fightfortherightsofhouseelves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindormischief/pseuds/gryffindormischief
Summary: It's just a little wintery getaway in the Scottish hills. What could possibly go wrong?





	Noir

**Author's Note:**

> this power duo is back on track, this time with some murder mystery with a healthy dish of sultry hinny on the side :)  
> enjoy and let us know what you think! we're also on tumblr at itsblissfuloblivion dot tumblr dot com

The post-Christmas season has always felt odd to Harry. It’s not the sudden lack of anything to anticipate, per se. His childhood had hardly been filled with late nights guessing what he had tucked underneath the tree. Unless he wanted to debate _which_ old pair of Dudley’s socks he’d be receiving. All in all, he’d found his little spider mate more entertaining in the dimly lit closet-bedroom.

Once he got his Hogwarts letter and all the Weasleys that entailed, Christmas certainly became a more exciting affair with happier associations - save a few in the middle there, marred by some Voldemort tinged memories.

Regardless, Harry’s not really had the season built up in his mind to be something he should be nostalgic for. Particularly since his and Ginny’s real ‘holiday’ tends to start _after_ everyone else’s. Sure, they both manage free days for the eve, day of, and boxing day, but wizards seem to love testing out dark magic in the dark winter months, and Ginny’s always got some promotion or other.

But January - January’s when he can lie about in his pants from dawn till dusk and no one says ‘boo.’ Ginny sometimes says some variation of ‘take off those shorts, Potter,’ but that’s either because he smells or she’s feeling randy. Either way, over the course of their still young marriage, Harry’s come to love January and everything that comes with it. Particularly the fact that they rarely plan much of anything, except maybe relocating their lazy eat-sleep- _don’t_ sleep routine to a more tropical locale.

This year though, family gets in the way a bit. Not the red haired, magical, crazy type. In fact, it comes in a heavy weight paper, Muggle envelope addressed with an elegant hand to _Mr and Mrs H.J. Potter_. And since very few people know Harry and Ginny’s address and even fewer would actually use it to send mail, it’s not even necessary to read the embossed sticker on the back.

Huffing, Harry shakes his head. “Classic Big D. Coming in at the worst time.”

Which isn’t to say he hates getting contact from Dudley. Sure, it had been odd, building a semi-friendly relationship with his cousin and former bully. But time and maturity meant Harry had come to learn that apologies from contrite former enemies who’ve mended their ways should generally be accepted. If not for the whole cohesive brotherhood of man bit, at least to cut down on the things that give him heartburn. Besides, he’d seen a lot worse of humanity by the time he was eighteen than Dudley.  

And whatever fear of a war he barely understood hadn’t squeezed out of Dudley, marriage and time spent away from Vernon Dursley managed to eradicate. So really, Harry didn’t much mind their occasional chats on Sunday afternoons, the sporadic lunch in Muggle London, or even a double date of dinner and a show.  

But today, today he’s ready to toss the damn envelope and invitation in the fireplace. Because it’s the death knell for his staycation second honeymoon, and Ginny’s been taunting him with a tiny little package from that shop in Muggle London that sells even tinier, littler lacy bits.

Still, he doesn’t. And maybe it’s because the mailman gave him a bit of an odd vibe, in a hurry to leave, his jaw set and that rather conspicuous glint in the corner of his eye Harry’d noticed here and there throughout his career. Or maybe it’s that damn voice inside his head reminding him that Dudley’s really trying - in his Dudders-Diddikins way, granted, but still coming from Dudley the gesture’s more than decent.

A long suffering sigh and Harry flicks the envelope on the table next to Ginny, who gives him a cocked eyebrow, to which he responds with a shrug.

“Are we going, then?” She asks as her eyes scan Harry for any signs of hidden displeasure or negative feelings. Ginny’s always been protective of her husband when it came to his side of the family matters.

“Guess so, dunno,” Harry shrugs again, his slippered foot drawing traces on the carpet.

Ginny presses open palms to the table, balancing her way up and around the table to lean on it, her bottom now against the hard wood as her eyes tease and her grin speaks of mischief never quite managed. “Have I ever told you that I’d always imagined the two of us snuggled underneath a soft blanket in a cabin?”

“Uh - you - err, you didn’t?” Harry gulps as she bites her lower lip, that one delicious freckle close to her mouth taunting him as it always does.

“Huh,” Ginny pretends to frown, “It must’ve slipped my mind. Anyway, it’s the two of us, naked, content, snowflakes gathered over glazed windows as the fire burns strongly in the hearth,” she pauses, admiring the result of her work - which is to say a very hot and bothered Harry, smudges of red and pink crawling up his neck and up to the top of his ears.

“But if you don’t really feel like going…” Ginny sighs, adding the cherry on top of her masterpiece, then brushes past him on her way to their bedroom.

“What? I didn’t say that!” Harry panics, the beautifully crafted image of Ginny and him enjoying - well, everything - dissolving like a sad soap bubble in front of his eyes. So being the man of action he’d always been, Harry strides into their room, grabs their suitcases, and magics various articles of clothing inside with a huff and a frown.

“What are you doing?” Ginny asks rather amused.

“Packing. Can’t have old Diddy waiting, he gets an upset stomach when he’s anxious,” Harry shrugs, determined to finish the job he’d begun, and Ginny stiffles a giggle with the back of her palm.

“Right,” she smirks, caresses his arm as she move towards the wardrobe. “Then I’d better pack that little black thing you like so much.”

Harry groans.

* * *

 

Which is how Harry ends up in a rented car, trundling through the Scottish mountains, snow falling softly while Ginny does her best to convince him that he _can_ refrain from murdering Piers for a weekend.

“He’s still a total arsehole,” Harry whines and flicks the windscreen wipers on. He’s not proud but this is seriously salt in a wound, being deprived of his Ginny-only holiday _and_ being forced to associate with Piers the Prick for longer than an evening.

“Don’t be so close minded.”

“First, you asked if you could pants him at Dudley’s birthday party, and second, I am fully aware that people can change and grow,” Harry says, “I am also fully aware that somehow Piers got _worse_.”

Ginny fiddles with the radio - whoever programmed the shortcuts has _terrible_ taste and loves listening to the most boring talk radio in existence - and sighs with mock easiness. “Well I suppose every time you start to feel your temper, I’ll just have to drag you off and have my way with you in a loo or a coat closet or a - ”

The blinker clicks as Harry turns onto a side road which allegedly leads to the little cabin Dudley’s rented for the weekend. “You’re a damn minx.”

“You’re welcome.”

The rest of the drive is relatively short and soon enough they’re greeting Dudley in the cozy front room while the rest of the guests mill about in the den. “We’ve got a fire going already and some mulled wine. Piers and his wife are here, so’s my mate Pamela from uni and her partner.”

Ginny gives Dudley a short hug. “Are we the last to arrive?”

“Nah, we’re still waiting on Jamie and Kendra,” Dudley shrugs, leading them toward the guestrooms, dark wood stairs creaking beneath their feet, “Fran will be glad you’re here, Ginny.”

“How are things at her new station?”

Dudley grins, unable to disguise the pride he has in his wife. “She’s already made assistant producer.”

Harry’s in the middle of congratulating Dudley when the door to their room swings open and he sees it - some sort of white fur rug laid out in front of a roaring fireplace. He can practically taste - well he’s not alone at least, in his train of thought, if Ginny’s slightly dazed expression is an accurate indicator.  

Luckily, Dudley seems unaware, pointing out their view and confiding that he’s given them the room with the best facilities. “It’s got a jacuzzi tub.”

Someone, likely Fran, calls for Dudley from downstairs and he excuses himself. “Take your time getting settled, it’s a holiday.”

Once the door clicks shut, Harry drops back on the bed while Ginny unzips her luggage. “I’m not unpacking for you, lazy bones.”

“I’ll unpack myself, if you get my meaning,” Harry says with an exaggerated wink and a slight wiggle of his pelvis.

“Ugh, such a _boy_.”

Harry hums, “You’re welcome.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes and Harry drifts off into a bit of a twilight sleep while Ginny putters around, claiming the middle drawers for herself (top ones have always been too high and lower ones would mean she’d always have to scoot down to find anything). He wakes when she shoves the last drawer closed and falls onto the bed just at his side to tug on a fresh pair of socks. “Harry, my dear, darling Harry.”

She gets a grunt in response, and is apparently dissatisfied. Though, Harry’s not at all bothered when her method of expressing said dissatisfaction involves throwing a leg over his hips and sitting astride his thighs like he’s her favorite broom. He can’t help but run his palms up over her knees, pressing at her back until she complies with his wordless request and tips forward.

At least, mostly. Because ideally, she’d have pitched forward until their lips met and Harry would currently be turning to mush at the mercy of his wife’s dexterous tongue. But she catches herself on her forearms instead, fiery waves cascading around their faces like sunkissed curtains. “ _You_ have got to behave yourself this weekend.”

“I thought you liked my mischievous streak.”

“There’s a drawer full of your mischievous streak in the caretaker’s office at Hogwarts,” Ginny teases. “What I _mean_ is that little black thing you like so much? It’s a reward for good behavior.”

“So I’m just to let whatever happens this weekend happen?”

Rolling her eyes, Ginny lets her lips tease at his jaw, nipping along the scruffy skin with highly distracting skill. “You’re to lie back and let your gallant harpy of a wife fight all your battles,” she lingers at his ear, earning a half sigh half moan, “And we both know you love it when I take charge.”

In a flash, Harry reverses their positions, pressing Ginny onto her back while the bed creaks beneath them, and manages to pin her wrists to the down-filled duvet. “Ditto.”

* * *

 

Later, though sadly not enough later for Harry and Ginny to have tested the jacuzzi tub, the Potters wander downstairs and join the other guests, all now arrived. When Piers catches Harry’s eye and raises his glass in recognition, Harry leans close to Ginny, his lips brushing her hair.  “You are a sneaky little thing.”

Her lips tick up at the corners. “A given. Why the sudden revelation?”

“Getting me all hot and bothered talking about shagging in the closets - ”

“What a dirty mouth you have,” Ginny teases, her whisper quiet as she twiddles her fingers in a cheeky wave. Piers looks worried and he should.

“ _And_ you thought having your way with me would leave me all relaxed and then _you_ could have all the fun.”

There’s a pause when Dudley’s wife Fran greets them and hands off two freshly poured mugs of mulled wine, but as soon as she goes to mingle with the other guests, Ginny picks up the thread. “I was under the impression the fun was mutual.”

“We both know I mean a completely different kind of fun.”

“If this is how you interrogate suspects, I’m quite shocked at your success rate, Aur - _Detective_ Potter.”

Jamie - Fran’s friend Kendra’s fiance - wanders over, eyes lit with excitement. “Did I hear detective? Kendra and I _love_ procedurals. You’ve got stories, right? Grisly stuff?” he pauses, fiddling with the clasp on his watch, “Sorry, I get excitable after a few drinks. Kendra’s my impulse control,” Harry and Ginny can barely do more than blink in his direction when Jamie shouts across the den, “ _Kendra_?”

As the tall brunette makes her way across the room, Ginny murmurs so only Harry can hear, “Hope those interoffice dinners with the bobbies from Scotland Yard are doing their job.”

He muffles his snort as best as he can and puts on his polite face for their new friends.  

Dudley had better get him a case of scotch for this.

It’s not long, though, before they’re all summoned to the dining room for a delicious three course dinner. It’s not until the little miniature fondue pots are laid out that Harry realizes just how much of an appetite he’s worked up. He’s dunking his fourth bit of crusty bread in the heavenly dish when Piers’ wife - June? - addresses Harry. “I think it’s just lovely that you boys have known eachother since primary school.”

Dudley’s skewer falls to the table with a clatter and Harry simply raises his brows at Piers before responding, a slightly stiff smile on his face, “Ah. Yes. Even from a young age Piers was always eager to make an impression.”

Ginny snorts and June looks slightly confused at Piers’ flush, but prattles on about where her grade school mates went off to. Dudley and Fran look relieved as the chef pushes in a rattling cart filled with china bowls and a tureen of creamy tomato.  

Once they’ve finished off half a roast chicken, two bowls of mashed potatoes, and some sort of baked mixed veg dish, they move back into the den and settle on the couches. The chef - Harry really tried to learn his name but he muttered it in a low very heavy German accent and Pamela was telling some story involving a fog horn which requires some very detailed imitation - disperses after dinner coffees and cherry pie a la mode before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Ginny manages her way through the minefield that is being a professional Quidditch player in the company of curious Muggles while they devour the pie. Before Ron and Hermione’s wedding, the bride herself had gifted Ginny with one of those ‘for dummies’ type books on football. Under threat of whatever terrible punishment Hermione Granger-Weasley could cook up, Ginny studied the book like she was back in her seventh year prepping for NEWTs and consequently ended up with a highly useful knowledge of the sport. Not that Ginny was a particularly big fan of telling Hermione so - in fact she’d only admitted it to Harry after a few too many glasses of wine on last year’s post-Christmas holiday from the world.

In the interest of brining the chat to a close before Ginny runs out of professional opinions as a sports writer in the field, Harry waits for an opportune moment and transitions the conversation to the following day. It seems they’ve got full run of the slopes and more than enough equipment to share between the four couples. Harry and Ginny went skiing with a few of his mates from the Ministry the January after Ginny started with the Harpies, so a day on the slopes should be pretty enjoyable. Plus last time they collapsed in bed and took turns massaging eachother’s tired muscles so all around Harry’s excited. He would probably have more fun if he and Ginny were home in their flat instead of using up valuable... _bonding time_ socializing with Dudley and his mates.

“Ginny will probably put us all to shame, sportswoman that she is,” Pamela says with a laugh, propping her socked feet on Kate’s legs. She wriggles her toes so it almost seems the jolly reindeer are dancing and Ginny laughs good naturedly.

“I do alright, Harry here’s the expert though with that fit little arse,” Ginny laughs and Harry flushes.

Piers sets his coffee down with a clumsy hand, brows furrowed. “See - I still don’t understand that.”

“I’m sure _that_ is something you don’t say often,” Ginny drawls, low so only Harry is privy to her jab.

“Harry’s always been a scrawny, specky thing and somehow he managed to land a hot piece of - ”

Unintentionally, Harry lets out a low growl as his jaw tightens. He’s used to holding back his baser instincts in this type of situation given that Ginny prefers to handle on her own with a mix of witty barbs and head cracking, depending on the situation. At the moment, he’s torn on which he’d like to see most.

Ginny’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as she sets down her half-empty plate on the side table. Then she smiles, slightly too toothy to be genuine and Harry knows that look. It’s the same expression she gets before decimating the competition during a game, a shark smelling blood in the water. “Yes, Harry was a little thing. But he’s certainly grown up,” she pauses and squeezes his thigh meaningfully and sends him a flirtatious wink, “In all the most _important_ ways.”

Jamie and Kendra share a look, both biting back laughter while Fran clears her throat, moving things along before Ginny decides to challenge Piers to a duel for Harry’s honor. She might hate an overly chivalrous mate, but hell if Ginny’s not a melodramatic Gryffindor when it comes to defending hers.

Everyone wanders off to their rooms, Dudley and Fran collecting the dishes and passing them through to the kitchen. Harry takes the stairs two at a time, tugging Ginny behind him.

Once they reach their room, Harry swings the door open and once they’re inside, presses Ginny up against the wood.

Ginny’s chest is rising and falling as she catches her breath, though she still manages a teasing, “Alright, Harry James?”

He’s already working his way down her neck, fingers dragging up the bottom of her jumper.  “You have never been sexier.”

Sighing, she wriggles her hand between them and manages to press Harry away, just barely.  “Wait ‘til you see what I packed to sleep in...or _not_ sleep in.”  

* * *

Harry wakes to a facefull of Ginny’s hair and a full bladder. She groans as he extricates himself from the bed, grasping at the sheets with her face scrunched against the morning light. “Why leave the glorious bed and your even more glorious wife for the cold, cruel world.”

“Unless you want me to wet the bed - ”

“Gross,” Ginny grumbles, flopping so she somehow takes up most of the bed, “Just get that clenched arse back here ASAP.”

“Ogling me?”

“You’re the one parading around starkers,” Ginny teases, twisting onto her back and basically wrapping herself up like a sultry little burrito.  

Harry closes the door behind him, shouting back, “You’re a bloody minx.”

* * *

 

After some very enjoyable quality time as husband and wife, Harry and Ginny manage to pry themselves from the comfort of their bed and dress for polite company. Just as they’re about to reach the top of the stairs, Pamela and Kate emerge from their own room, looking well rested and chatting about the weather conditions.

Pamela waves, cheery, while Kate affords them a short nod in greeting. “Did you see the weather?”

Harry flushes, because they most definitely did not bother with much of anything but each other that morning, and Ginny pinches his side. “We had the curtains drawn, wanted to sleep in a bit.”

“Surprise snowstorm swept in last night,” Kate says, “We flicked on the wireless, the roads are all closed.”

Pamela leads the way and the couples continue downstairs. “At least Fran said we’ve got an excess of food laid up for the weekend. I wouldn’t mind staying in all cozied up in front of the fire and eating my weight in cheese.”

Ginny grins, “We’ll get along just fine, Pamela.”

Breakfast is as decadent as dinner the night before, Harry could swear they ate three dozen eggs between them, and the conversation is easy despite the niggling presence of Piers. Perhaps Ginny’s shag away the rage plan is viable.

Over a final pot of tea, the couples make plans to grab the sliders, sleds, and whatever else Dudley and Fran rented for the weekend and take advantage of the fresh snowfall.  

Once everyone’s bundled, they troop out into the bright wintery morning and fall on the gear like excited children. Almost immediately, Ginny snatches up two sliders and tosses one toward Harry’s chest. “Let’s see how fast you are, old man.”

“Again, barely a year older,” Harry says, mock serious, and trots towards the slope.

He’s getting settled in, ready to push off when a red and grey blur flashes past him followed by the ever familiar sound of Ginny’s competitive cackle.

She’s a third of the way down the hill when Harry pushes off with a muttered swear. The icy wind bites at his exposed cheeks, his throat dry from laughing in the cold, eyes streaming. Somehow, in the span of a few minutes, Ginny always manages to make him forget his cares and feel like a kid again. Maybe the kid he never really got to be, save a few precious memories.

When he reaches the bottom, Ginny’s already propped her slider in the snow next to her hip, eyes alight with teasing glee. “Welcome, you made it just in time for my _birthday_.”

Tossing his sled aside, Harry takes a few quick strides - slightly slowed by the drag of snow drifts - and tackles Ginny to the ground in an expert move, perfected in the training room with Ron. Hovering just above her, his hat lost in the fray, Harry accuses, “ _You_ are a cheat.”

“Opportunist,” Ginny corrects, gloved hands splayed to the sides so she’s positioned like some sort of gingerbread man. “We never set rules.”

“Because since the dawn of time, races assume opponents will begin at the same place and time.”

“Don’t go all high and mighty, you pulled that out of your arse.”

“How would you know?” Harry says, rolling off and tugging Ginny to her feet, “I have layers.”

“Hermione Granger-Weasley is the only human in existence who says that and actually _knows_ she’s correct.”

Harry dips his head, allowing it, and they begin the trek back to the top as Kendra and Jamie speed down on a two person toboggan. He leans down to swipe up his lost cap and continues, “Next time, I’ll come prepared with documentation.”

“You’d better, I’m a hard arse who takes no shite,” Ginny replies, jutting her chin and pausing to pose dramatically.

“Don’t make me take you down again.”

“Like you could,” Ginny challenges.

“Is that a dare?” Harry asks, stepping closer as they reach the hilltop.  

She eyes him speculatively so Harry’s body thrums with possibility, before shaking her head.  “No. Not yet. I want to draw this out - make it all the better for waiting.”

Harry’s brows rise and before he can think, he’s got a snowball formed in his hand and flying right for his wife’s face.

Swiping the flakes from her cheeks, Ginny’s eyes narrow. “You’ll live to regret that move, Potter.”

And then it’s an all out war, a blur of snowy projectiles that somehow draws in the other couples.

They split into two groups sharing the same battlefield, their clothes wetter with each throw and snowball sneaking through the defense, it’s not long before time slides away from everyone’s minds. A growling belly (Ginny’s) announces it’s turned lunch time and heartily laughing the battered troops march arm in arm back into the cabin, completely and utterly ready for the chef’s finest.

However, in lieu of the fresh and delicious aromas of nicely cooked food there’s only a disappointing smell of...nothing? The wood in the fireplace has all but burned, the back door was left ajar, the cold winter air creeping inside, and there’s conspicuously no frenzied rumblings from the kitchen.

Still they shrug it off and hop the stairs two at a time to change into something dry before hypothermia kicks in and terminates their small weekend getaway, high key hoping that a steamy meal will be enthroned upon the table when they return.

“Something’s off,” Ginny comments as her first layer of clothing flies away into the continuously growing pile of wet clothes. “And I don’t just mean your right throw.”

“I’ll let you know I’m taking offence on that,” Harry scoffs, wrestling his thermalware off and over his ankles. His face turns serious once he’s gotten rid of the sodden cloth, “But yeah, I’ve the same feeling.”

“What’s on your mind, then?” Ginny looks at him, pensive and weary.

“If my gut is right, then our pleasant weekend ended with the cook’s conspicuous disappearance,” Harry scratches at his stubble and walks over to Ginny, puts his arms around her. “But let’s wait and see how it plays out.”

Ten minutes later they’re both tucked into woolen hand-knit sweaters, winter jackets cozily fitted around them. Harry’s boots scratch the surface of the dining room as he stops to take in the scene. Three couples, six people looking a little bit uneasy, a little bit grey-faced. Never a good omen, this feeling of uneasiness sweeping up an entire room and slowly sowing seeds of panic and despair.

“The food’s still not here,” Piers smartly observes and Harry would very much like to serve him a knuckle sandwich for his efforts. Still, he does have to admit there are other more pressing issues he must attend to first.

“Erm - Harry,” Dudley calls uncomfortably from one of the armchairs next to the windows. “Do you have any...tips?”

Harry’s mind is buzzing with not just tips, but theories. It’s always done things on its own, his mind, first creating a mental map of the scene, filling it with dots to connect them later, when the blur disappears and everything takes shape.

Behind smudgy round glasses, his eyes focus on a spot next to Dudley’s left ear and through the window, somewhere outside. Suddenly, he remembers the door being ajar and the chill that greeted them once they returned to the cabin.

In three quick strides, Harry’s at the door, his deft fingers prodding at the floor.

“Harry?” Ginny asks and he knows she’s caught up on his train of thought.

“Someone was here,” he states.

“What? How?” Three pairs of voices sound from all over the room.

“Someone was here and they’ve been very careful to mop their footprints before they left,” Harry explains as he makes his way towards the kitchen, Ginny and Dudley in tow. There are pots and pans everywhere, as though a hurricane had snuck in while they were outside and wreaked havoc. All three rush through the kitchen back door and -

“Shite,” Harry swears under his breath. Before him, a body rests peacefully in the snow. If not for the unusual stance of the arms, the loll of its head to one side, one would be tricked into thinking that the cook was taking a quick kip before supper.

“Oh no - oh, Harry, is he dead? He’s dead, right?” Dudley panics, his face paper white.

“Dudley, go lock all doors and tell everyone to not leave the sitting room under any circumstances,” Harry instructs and shakes his cousin twice when there’s no response. “Understood?”

Dudley lamely nods his blonde head and stumbles back inside the cabin.

“Ginny,” Harry focuses his attention on his wife, composed and ready three steps behind him. “Try and call the muggle police. Ring until someone picks up.”

She’s much faster than Dudley to comprehend and speeds through the door with a quick nod of acknowledgement.

As Harry squats down to examine and think, his mind begins its wild zigzag trajectory once more. Who could have done it? Why? What’s their MO? Why the cook and not somebody else?

“Bloody hell!” Ginny’s voice distinctly punctures through to him and then she’s back, blazing look on her face and breath uneven. “The phone lines’ve been knocked out by the blizzard.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, heavy boots stomping their way back inside. It seems like there’s never a day of rest for Auror Potter, not even this far from the Wizarding World.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Harry’s growl startles Piers, his hand on the door handle and cap askew atop his head.

“Home. I want none of this -”

“You’re staying right here.”

Piers’ face turns from white to scarlett then back to white in under three seconds, probably a new world record, before he finds the courage to ask, “Says who?”

Sadly for Harry and his well prepared fists, it’s Dudley who gets to them first and provides a stuttered answer, “Piers, erm - I know I never told you before, but, yeah, Harry’s with...Scotland Yard.”

* * *

 

Everyone’s silent, the kind of silent that indicates fear, not comprehension of the general situation. Harry’s well acquainted with it, walking into rooms where the quiet feels as heavy as chains more often than not.

He’s photographed enough to hold as evidence, careful that each of his actions could pass as a muggle detective’s under any circumstance. For now, he knows the fall was definitely not a fall, but a deliberate push. He also reckons the possibility of another murder is fairly limited, but still keeps a close eye on everyone.

“Anyone fancy a cheese sandwich?” Ginny claps her knees as she gets up from one of the chairs, tone as cheery and natural as she can manage.

Immediately, Dudley’s wife, then Pamela jump to their feet, breaking the strange trance they’ve all fallen into since the body’s been found.

Harry takes it as cue to disappear for a few moments and alert the cavalry, so to say.

“I’ll be upstairs for a minute to send word to a friend,” he casually addresses Dudley, emerald green eyes clearly saying more than his mouth does: make sure nobody leaves.

He climbs the stairs two at a time and shuts the door behind him, casting Muffliato before anything else. Harry concentrates fast and hard on the day’s events, he imagines Ron receiving the news.

“Expecto Patronum!” The liquid silver shapes into a stag, hooves trotting on the wooden floor before it takes flight to Ron, Harry’s message safely guarded with it.

“Think, Harry, think,” he urges himself as he paces the room, five steps ahead and another five back. “You’ve arrived here by car, so have the others, and maybe...so has the chef? And the killer?”

Clinging on to that last thought, Harry runs to the parking lot, wand clenched tightly in his fist inside his windbreaker. He rushes past an infuriated Piers, past the clink of the cutlery on plates as the rest munch on Ginny’s patented cheese sandwiches and out the door, nearly flying over the landing.

A nasty curse and a stomp of the boot against the ice and snow, and Harry’s almost never been so displeased to notice that the instinct telling him the murderer must’ve taken the chef’s car and scattered was correct. And along with the car, most of what would have been his lead vanished as well.

Frustrated, he shakes the snow off from his clothes and shoes, then slumps on the couch next to Ginny with a sigh and a ruffle of his perpetually messy hair.

“You don’t look too chuffed, Potter,” Piers remarks with a scoff. “Should we take it that your little investigation has failed?” Harry is aware that he should exert some self control, but his childhood bully seems a bit too pleased with himself to let it slip.

“The only thing you’ll be taking if you don’t shut it is my foot up your -”

“Harry needs more time before he draws his conclusions,” Ginny squeezes her husband’s leg, then turns to him. “Perhaps I could assist, right, dear?”

And she’s right, he’s got to focus and ignore foul-mouthed idiots for the time being. A man’s been killed.

“Better check the cook’s room before we lose more evidence,” Harry agrees.

They leave the room perfectly aware of the many pairs of eyes following them, not fully trusting, yet not entirely certain they can’t trust them. It’s that gut feeling that tells Harry once again that the killer is not longer amongst them.

“That bad, huh?” Ginny asks from the corner of her mouth as they stop in front of the chef’s room, door closed and locked.

“Fairly,” Harry admits, looking around to be certain no one’s watching before he removes his wand from its pocket and taps the handle. “Car’s gone, as is the murderer.”

“Brilliant,” Ginny mutters as she pushes the door open with her shoulder and steps inside.

The room looks untouched - a wee bit too untouched and clean for Harry’s taste.

“Someone’s been pretty keen on leaving no trace, I reckon,” he states and, after memorising each detail of the scene, takes out the camera and snaps enough photos to add to the ever growing case file.  All a far cry from the playful snowy snaps he’d imagined taking home this weekend.

A quick search through the wardrobe and desk drawers shows that the chef’s a long term employee of the cabin: there’s piles of clothes and stacks of paperwork, paychecks and logs in one agenda.

“He used to be here more often than not, wasn’t he?” Ginny asks, her voice trailing off at the end.

“Seems so...But then -”

“Yeah?”

“Then the killer must be a person who knew him well. Well enough to find him here, and his car, his room, his schedule,” Harry finishes running both hands through his disheveled hair.

“A peer?”

“Or a friend.”

“Dunno how many friends this one’s got, there’s no personal mail, no postcards, no notes around,” Harry points back towards the desk.

“Or just someone who knows things about other people,” Ginny shrugs, a frown disrupting entire constellations of freckles on her face.

There’s silence before Harry’s eyes widen as he remembers a short scene from the previous day, and he slaps his forehead, palm pressing hard and quick against the old scar.

“What?” Ginny asks, brown eyes locked with green.

“You’re brilliant, you are!” Harry grins toothily, brings her close and kisses her hard on the lips.

“I mean usually I’d say where’s the lie, but why am I brilliant right now?” She responds, slightly amused, slightly taken by surprise.

 **“** Muggles put their mail on hold when they leave for longer periods of time.”

“Oh?”

“Therefore mailmen are informed about the recipient's departure so they know when to start delivering mail again,” Harry continues his explanation as he paces around the room, a habit he’s developed and honed over long work hours of thinking, thinking, thinking.

“You mean to say that -” Ginny gasps, eyes fixed intently on Harry.

“That the mailman must’ve been the killer, yeah.”

“Merlin’s sweet - why would they do it?”

“That I do not know yet,” Harry ceases his pacing, a smirk lingering on the corner of his lips. “Ron should be able to tell us once he’s done searching the chef’s house and secured the stolen car from wherever our suspect’s abandoned it.”

“How inappropriate is it that I believe you’ve never been hotter?” She grins, steps closer to him, one hand pushing her hair back as the other sneaks beneath his sweater.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Harry breathes against her lips, hands cupping her face before she presses him against the wall and kills him slowly with tender kisses.

Ginny pauses, pulling away, “Perhaps we continue this _not_ in the murder victim’s bedroom?”

“Affirmative.”

* * *

Ron takes the lead back in London, getting together with _actual_ detectives from Scotland Yard and somehow getting a combined magic and muggle task force approved for the case, despite it’s heavily muggle leaning. When Harry says as much, Ginny grins. “Ron’s the second most persuasive Weasley, so I’m not shocked.”

Harry chuckles as he tugs his trousers back on and flops back against the rumpled bedclothes. “And who takes first place?”

“Ravishing girl with amazing quidditch skills who just moments ago persuaded one Harry James Potter to - ”

Grabbing her hand as she passes the bedside, Harry pulls Ginny’s hand until she’s splayed diagonally across his chest. She doesn’t hesitate, simply propping herself on her arm and smirking down at him. “Do I embarrass you?

“You do a lot of things to me, Ginevra Molly Potter, but embarass is not one of them.”

Fingertips teasing along his cheekbones, Ginny smiles, soft. “I s’pose I should take the compliment for what it is and _not_ bring up a certain ill-advised Valentine’s card?”

“Young me was surprised, adult me thinks ‘adorable,’”

“Quoting ourselves, are we?” Ginny teases, before pushing up from the bed and stepping into her trainers. “Now let’s head down there before the situation turns any more Agatha Christie than it already has.”

Sighing, Harry rocks himself into a sitting position and grabs for his dry boots. “Aye, if we don’t figure out the food situation soon, Piers _will_ start eating people.”

“I have no doubt.”

Harry’s prediction is proven wrong - slightly - since it seems Piers’ motivation for food manifested itself, but not in a cannibalistic fashion.

When they reach the foot of the staircase, the first thing Harry notes, following Piers’ conspicuous absence, is the heady scent of something definitely beef-based. He says as much to Ginny and she chuckles. “What a detective you are.”

“Never said I was a food expert,” Harry laughs, catching Dudley’s eye. His cousin seems to be on high alert, perhaps waiting on pins and needles since the Potters disappeared upstairs. And perhaps he should feel sorry for keeping Dudley waiting while Ginny had her way with him, but the beauty that is Ginny after a Detective Harry episode coupled with about sixteen years of childhood bullying alleviate Harry’s guilt.

Before they can rejoin the group, Dudley strides towards Harry. “So - what’ve you found?”

Ideally, the whole group won’t need to be kept up to speed with every detail. Especially since once they get some actual leads, he really _can’t_ keep the lines of information flowing. Ginny, as usual, seems to cotton on to his train of thought and excuses herself. “I’ll go give the others a little bit of info, see if they noticed anything.”

Dudley leads Harry toward a little study off the front of the cabin and presses the door closed with a click. “Sorry. Should’ve thought of this earlier.”

Harry props himself on the lip of the ornately carved desk and Dudley sighs into one of the tufted chairs. Once Dudley seems to have settled himself, Harry sets a few charms around the room and begins catching him up to speed. “I got in touch with Ron - you know him from the wedding - and he’s got with Scotland Yard so they’re working things from that end. Ginny and I secured the necessary areas as much as possible and I’ve done my best to take crime scene photos so the police will have something to work with once the snow clears.”

“I doubt they’ll find anything you’ve missed,” Dudley states, without a hint of hesitation.

Honestly, if you’d asked Harry ten years ago if Dudley would ever say something so complimentary so easily, he’d have laughed in your face.

Harry runs his palms over his trousers and purses his lips in thought. “The plan from here is to keep everyone safe - it seems this was a specific crime, not some slasher waiting in the wind to come pick us off. Still, I’d like everyone to stay in groups and most definitely indoors after dark.”

After a moment, Harry releases the charms around the room and guides Dudley to the door. As they’re about to join the group, Dudley pauses and chuckles wryly. “You know I really did think this would be a nice holiday for you.”

“Trouble finds me, Big D.”

* * *

 

Dinner is a surprisingly enjoyable affair where Harry discovers Piers became a chef, of all things. At work, he’s probably like the real life version of the angry chef on the telly. As Harry and Ginny claim a couple of seats, he leans in close to murmur, “Piers cooking - he’ll probably poison mine, or at least spit in it.”

Ginny snorts, “I’d hope for poison; have you seen his dental hygiene habits?”

Regardless, he managed to whip up a pretty delicious meal - butternut squash soup, steaks all around, garlic mashed potatoes, and some sort of mixed fruit pie. Everyone’s pretty quiet, light chatter about passing salt and compliments to the chef. Though using that particular phrasing generally earns a wince or two, given the state of their _actual_ chef.

Once the tea’s been drunk to the dregs and sweet seconds have been had, it’s Kate who finally works up the nerve to ask Harry about the investigation.  

“So Scotland Yard is investigating?”

Harry fiddles with his teacup, righting it in the saucer, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve forwarded all the information we have as of yet to my partner in London, yes.”

Jamie props his elbows on the table, leaning in closer. “What sort of information, then?”

It’s in this instance, Harry finds himself grateful for the bureaucratic nonsense that exists in his line of work. The day has been long, somewhat disturbing as murder is wont to be, and Harry really doesn’t trust his ability to keep his temper if he’s subjected to another interrogation courtesy of Piers. “I feel comfortable saying it appears we have a homicide on our hands and that our safety is best served by remaining in groups, preferably indoors.”

Piers harrumphs, likely chafing at the idea of Harry being in charge, and Ginny bites back on a laugh. _Troublemaker_.

Pushing his plate away, Harry continues, “I’ll do another sweep of the cabin, inside and outside, once everyone heads upstairs.”

Fran smiles. “Thanks for doing all this on your holiday, Harry.”

“Well we do pay his salary, after all. It’s his job,” Piers grumbles.  

Harry, in a feat his younger self would have either found admirable or deeply disappointing, does _not_ answer back with a witty rejoinder _or_ the business end of his wand. Perhaps Ginny will make good on her ‘shag the frustration away’ promises. It’s worked so far - Piers is still alive after all.

Luckily, everyone’s similarly drained from their rather harrowing day and head off to bed without Harry ushering them upstairs like an overworked nanny. Though it does sound a bit like a sitcom - ‘Harry the Harried Nanny.’

Ginny insists on trailing him as ‘back up’ offering commentary on his techniques. Generally, it’s a mix of actual, helpful assistance and notes on which search practices are most effective in featuring his ‘cute arse.’

Overall, by the time they return to their bedroom, Harry’s satisfied the house is secure (courtesy of a few carefully placed charms) and highly _unsatisfied_ in other areas. Though Ginny seems similarly inclined, if her seeking hands and _very_ quick fingers are any indication. And if Harry was in any way confused by the signals, Ginny’s veritable _pounce_ once he presses the door closed would have definitely provided some clarity.

Either way, Harry and Ginny enjoy a rather lovely evening on the cosy rug in front of the fireplace before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

 

Harry wakes to the disappointing sound of Ginny in the shower, alone. Though the tragedy is one easily remedied, if he acts quickly enough.

Quietly, while Ginny’s still warbling her way through some new pop ditty that played about four hundred times on the way to the cabin, Harry brushes his teeth in order to present his lovely, soaked, naked wife with a minty fresh mouth. She’s only just started her routine - he can smell as Ginny works her hair into a lather with the flowery shampoo she favors.

After rinsing, Harry pulls the shower door open with a pop and slips in behind Ginny. She barely startles, settling back against him as he winds his arms around her middle. “ _You_ didn’t wake me up, Mrs. Potter.”

“You worked quite hard last night.”

“You mean yesterday?” Harry asks, nipping at her jaw.

“I said what I meant,” Ginny drawls, twisting in his embrace and letting her palms slip over his arms, slippery from the spray.

And while things start fairly innocent - Ginny providing her excellent shampooing skills in a completely selfless manner - they end up with a mutually satisfying encore to last night’s performance. Twice.

Life can’t be all fun and games, sadly, and once they’re dressed and ready for the day, Harry sends another Patronus to check in with Ron.

Ron’s answer is short, “Got your fireplace hooked up to the network, jump on in a few.”

While Ginny secures the bedroom from prying eyes, Harry rifles through their luggages and finds his emergency pouch of floo powder.

After shouting into the flames, Harry finds the worn rug of his and Ron’s shared office swirling into focus. “Alright, Ronnie?”

“Why do you do that to me?”

“‘Cause I l _o_ ve you,” Harry says with a grin.  

Ginny saunters over and squats down next to Harry. “Making a move on my brother before my very eyes.”

“What can I say? Those gangly limbs and ocean blue eyes _send me_.”

“I am not - whatever. Back to business,” Ron grunts, “We followed your hunch and looked into the mail carriers who’ve had that route, or anybody involved with mail processing in the area. A few of them have some minor infractions on their records. Not _too_ much on that front at the mo’.”

“Anything on the chef himself?” Harry asks.

“Ah,” Ron says, shuffling through the file he placed at his knee, “We found an odd series of deposits into his bank account. Not overly large sums but untraceable cash.”

“You think blackmail?” Ginny asks.

Harry hums his agreement in the question and Ron nods, “That’s our best guess, so far.”

“Keep us posted.”

“Ditto.”

Just before Harry disconnects the floo, Ron pauses, “Be safe you two, eh?”

Ginny salutes, “Right-o, Ronnie.”

He groans, “I hate you.”

The flames die down and Harry pushes to his feet, waiting for Ginny to follow suit. “We’ll head to breakfast?”

Laughing, Ginny pauses with her fingers on the handle, “Ready to be interrogated?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

* * *

 

“This is ridiculous,” Piers bursts mid bite. “Are we expected to sit here in silence like well behaved children and ask no questions?”

“I don’t believe that’d be possible since you’ve never been well behaved,” Harry volleys right back around his sandwich.

“I should have beaten your skinny arse when I had the opportunity,” Piers throws his chair back, ready for battle. However, he quickly starts to look rather confused as to why he needed to get up, gently places his chair back at the table and, flashing an odd kind of smile, walks outside to build a snowman all by himself.

His wife sounds very uncomfortable at best as she delivers a hefty explanation before running after him, “Anxiety brings out the child in him. Excuse me.”

A quick look around the table helps Harry find the culprit in the form of a chuckling Ginny, even though, to her credit, she did try to hid it behind a paper napkin. He’ll remember to thank her properly later.

“Is there anything you’re able to tell us, Harry?” Kendra breaks the awkwardness, her eyes apologetic.

“Or if we’ll be able to leave today?” Jaime joins in, hopeful. “The storm’s cleared out, the roads should be alright now.”

Harry pats the corners of his mouth with a napkin before he calmly speaks, “I should be able to explain in about 30 minutes.” Somewhat of a flex, he knows, but he’s always worked flawlessly with Ron and their combined efforts in solving a case have never failed them.

“Meet me here at 10 sharp,” he addresses the befuddled audience in a true Hercule Poirot manner before he makes his way back upstairs, to his and Ginny’s room, where - if all went well - an owl should be waiting for him.

“Brilliant as always, mate,” Harry grins as he lays eyes on a snowy owl awaiting his arrival on the other side of the window.

Rapidly he lets her inside and scratches the feathers at the back of her head, then unties the scroll of parchment secured around her leg.

“Expected as much,” he grunts, takes out a pen from his pocket and scribbles a reply on the back of the paper.

As soon as the owl takes flight, Harry starts pacing the room, putting order to his thoughts and finishing the last of the puzzle. When he’s finally satisfied with the conclusions he’s drawn, Harry steps out into the hallway and back into the sitting room. The final moment’s arrived.

Seven pairs of eyes are upon him (albeit Piers’ is everywhere, still mildly confused) and Harry wastes no more time.

“There’s no mystery that the chef’s been murdered,” he starts in force. “Thus, the real question has been a natural one: who committed the murder? Followed by the why, the reason, the incentive to commit crime,” Harry confidently states, then pauses. “I am now able to tell you who and why.”

Startled gasps and concentration fill the room. Harry looks every one of the seven persons in the eye, offering enough space and time for any possible admissions, one of the first techniques he learned while training as an Auror. When no one speaks, he sighs and continues dutifully.

“Our chef’s been blackmailed,” Harry says all of a sudden. “He has been blackmailed for quite some time, up until the money was no longer enough and the truth was about to come out. In this sense, it is somewhat ironic that the murderer was not one of us -” relieved sighs echo all around - “but the mailman. The cook’s mailman, to be precise.” Harry finishes rather pleased and waits for a wave of questions to erupt, as it always happens.

Sure enough, everybody puts forward their own question which requires an answer and Harry allows enough time for the tension to disappear and the calm to return.

He raises one hand to signal that silence is once again needed, then continues, tone professional and frown between his dark eyebrows, “As most of us do, the chef had a habit of putting his mail on hold while he was away from home, therefore informing the mailman of the exact period of his absences. It appears that it is not unheard of that mailmen seize the opportunity to make a bit of profit from the information they are fed by the unsuspecting. And by profit I mean stealing from the person’s house while they are away.”

More gasps and whispers, followed by reactions of anger at the thought that an institution they’ve been taught to respect and trust could actually _betray_ their trust.

“At one point, however, our chef had returned home earlier than planned, only to find the mailman inside his house, helping himself to something or other. And threatened to go to the police, hence spiralling into a nasty case of blackmail and death threats. Yesterday, our culprit became restless and decided to finish the affair, knowing full well that his victim would not be alone. How? He took it upon himself to deliver Dudley’s generous invitations - as he had been doing for awhile with any correspondence involving this venue, always at watch for the best opportunity to strike.”

At this, Dudley’s ears turn red, his palms fly to hide his face.

“So he takes a ride up here, waits until there is no one else inside and pushes the chef out the window to make it look like a fall. Unfortunately for him, when he stole the cook’s car, he did not take into account that the snow might block the roads,” Harry grins. “As I’ve just been informed, it’s how my colleagues found him, the car stuck in a pile of ice and snow on an empty road.”

“Blimey,” Dudley whistles, his eyebrows shooting so high up they almost blend in with his fringe.

“What - erm, what happens next?” A distressed Palma dares ask.

“A team from Scotland Yard is on its way. They’ll need to question everyone here, then you should be free to go enjoy the rest of the weekend,” Harry smiles good naturedly, understanding fully well everybody’s hurry to be out and far away from the cabin as possible. Murder and mystery don’t mix well with winter holidays - or with any other kind of holidays, really.

His eyes dart to Ginny, who’s smiling at him, all proud and loving. And he returns the feeling, every single bit of it.

* * *

“Harry Potter saves the day yet again,” Ginny teases on their way home, her fingertips caressing the skin on Harry’s arm as he drives.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, my dear Watson,” he winks.

“Sounds to me like you should thank this dear Watson,” she suggests, a cheeky glint in her eye.

“Oh, I plan on doing so.”

As the words roll off his tongue, his hands grab the wheel tighter and swerve right, off from the main road and up a forest path. As soon as the car disappears from view, heavily hidden by the thick patch of snow white trees, Harry turns the ignition off and maneuvers his seat to lean back.

A ginger eyebrow rises in question and Harry grins wide.

“I’m feeling rather rebellious after this weekend,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “You were right, it was good for me.”

“Aha,” Ginny smirks. “I see,” she bites her lower lip as she slips from her seat and climbs up her husband’s lap, straddling him as her fingers scratch at the back of his head. “Then I better show you that,” she stops, freckled fingers curling around the hem of her sweater, slowly taking it off, “I did save that little black thing especially for you.” Ginny winks and Harry turns to mush.

Before long, there are no clothes left to tear off. There’s just them, hidden away by the steamy windows of a rented car parked at the edge of a snowy forest.

At the end of the day, Harry does specialise in finding the silver lining, even on a weekend filled with murder and mayhem.


End file.
